


The Sound of Lemurs and Bees Murmuring

by sanguinity



Series: B. lemuria [2]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e23-24 The Woman/The Heroine, Gen, Insomnia, Joan/Sleep OTP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:56:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I am apologizing, Watson," he enunciates with exaggerated dignity, "for the lemurs."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in the brownstone, there must be a place where he can sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Lemurs and Bees Murmuring

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/839432) by [hophophop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop). 



> Sequel to hophophop's "[Pi](http://archiveofourown.org/works/839432)," but divergent from her "[Pie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/840267)." (If you mash real hard and squint a little, you might be able to wedge it into the interstices.) Additionally, a prequel to my own "[A Bee Coda Coda](http://archiveofourown.org/works/849545)," answering the question of what other loopy things he did that day.

"Sherlock! If we have ants, we'll need to do more than—" Joan swings around the newel post at the top of the stair to find Sherlock coloring at the table in front of his lock display. At a second glance, it's oil pastels, but the effect is uncannily like a boy drawing at the kitchen table. She comes to look over his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Making a card for Detective Bell." He decisively lays down one color, then exchanges the crayon for another. "Moriarty left all her materials here, she can't use them in prison, and in any case, I see no point in attempting to return them to her. I thought I might get some use out of them."

A pair of large-eyed creatures are taking form on the page. "Why are you making a card for Marcus?"

"I am apologizing, Watson," he enunciates with exaggerated dignity, "for the lemurs."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "If you're in the apologizing mood, I think he would prefer an apology for us faking your overdose. I already did at the hospital, but I'm sure he would appreciate hearing it from you, too."

Sherlock snorts. "Don't be ridiculous. I can't draw him a picture of me with a needle in my arm and call that _an apology._ Can you imagine his reaction on receiving such a thing?"

She is having trouble imagining his reaction on receiving a hand-drawn card with _lemurs_ on it, but lets it go. "I didn't know you could draw." 

"It's not so difficult." He makes a quick dismissive gesture in the air with his pastel, before returning it to the paper before him. "The basic skill is simply observation, looking at what is actually there. The perceptual scale differs from what we do—people go wrong in observing the _gestalt,_ 'bag of rice,' as opposed to the shapes and colors that comprise the _visual perception_ of the bag of rice—but the mental discipline of separating reality from assumption is similar." He pauses to consider his lemurs. "Of course, making _art_ is another matter entirely, requiring a certain emotive perception, an empathy, if you will—"

"Which is why her drawings of you looked like police sketches," Joan murmurs.

Sherlock's crayon hesitates, before he resumes adding detail to a great, lustrous eye. "I was going to say that art is quite beyond my skill, but I should like to believe, Watson, that my lemurs show more sincerity of emotion than anything of _Moriarty's_. This is an _apology_ , after all."

Joan makes a vague sound of agreement. No one would criticize these lemurs for lack of emotion.

"Why are you carrying the sugar about the house?" he asks.

"Oh!" she says, remembering the sugar in her hand, and setting it down next to his pastels. "I was going to say that if we have ants, the honey residue in the upstairs hall is likely to be a bigger issue than—" He shakes his head minutely at her, and she stops. "Okay," she tries, "let's back up a step. Why is the sugar in the refrigerator?" 

"I don't know, Watson. Why is the sugar in the refrigerator?"

She frowns. "Because you...?" His expression is open. "You don't remember putting the sugar in the refrigerator." He shrugs, and she pulls the second chair around, bringing herself so that she can see his face better. "How much sleep did you get last night?" she asks. He drops his attention to his drawing. 

"Sherlock." She resists the urge to reach out and nudge his chin back up; between Irene's resurrection and Sherlock's stitches, she has become shockingly free in touching him these past days. "Sherlock, look at me. _Sherlock._ " She puts a punch of command into the last, and that brings his eyes up, if only for a moment. "Why didn't you sleep? Is there something wrong with the bed?" He swaps crayons, and marks in textual details of one of the creatures' fur. She takes that as confirmation. "What is wrong with the bed? You're meant to be sleeping, that wound won't heal if you don't get some rest. Tell me what's wrong with the bed." He gives her a dirty look, and she sets her jaw. "So we can _fix it_ , Sherlock."

He glares at her for a few moments longer, then whirls away from the table. " _Your_ bed, Watson. It's your bed."

"Yes?"

" _Your_ linens!"

She makes an exasperated face. "I changed the sheets. There isn't another bedspread in the house, except for—"

He goes up on his tiptoes in frustration. "Of _course_ you changed the sheets! It's not _in_ you to offer a bed to someone without changing the sheets." He composes himself, but his frustration is still evident in every abrupt gesture. "When you came to this house, Watson, you brought two pieces of luggage: an overnight case, and a large rolling suitcase. The overnight case had toiletries and clothes for two days, enough to hold you over until the rest of your wardrobe could be delivered, but the large rolling case, _that_ was full of bed linens. Sheets, blankets, duvet, pillows, and yes, your two alarm clocks."

She nods, waiting to see where he is going with this. 

"I got that wrong when you first moved in. Those weren't the two alarm clocks of a woman who hated her job; those were the alarm clocks of a woman who loves her bed. Those linens that you were unwilling to do one night without: luxurious, yes, your one creature indulgence, but more importantly, _yours._ The first thing you did on having a free moment here was to strip the bed and replace its linens with your own, psychologically marking as your own this one space in a stranger's house. It's a clever workaround for the vagabond problem, Watson, a way to create a semblance of stability in a career that has so little of it." 

Joan can feel that she has gone stiff; she has never grown comfortable with him turning his whirlwind of deductive frenzy on her. It has simply happened less often as they have become accustomed to each other.

"But here it is, eight months later, this isn't a stranger's house anymore, and your bed is _still_ the only space in this house you have marked as yours. You haven't even properly moved into your _room_. Your wardrobe, your linens, and your spatula," despite the sling, he ticks them off on his fingers, "the spatula that _I_ gave you!—are the only things you have here. After you were evicted from your apartment, you had everything put _in storage_ , rather than move in here. Even just this week you were offering to move out—" His eyes work around the upper walls, as if looking for inspiration on how to continue. Joan waits. "When I proposed our partnership, Watson, I said that you may reside here or elsewhere, as you prefer. But I am fond of having you here. And whatever your hesitations, I still consider this to be _our_ home."

She nods slowly. "...and you feel as if you are putting me out of it, if you take my bed," she finishes. After a moment, he indicates his agreement with a bow. 

She tries not to sigh. "If you'll recall, I told you not two days ago that we had a dead assassin on the third floor of _our_ home." She is not going to justify putting her possessions in storage, not to him, not today. "I'm not going to drift away like a lost balloon, just because I'm not in my own bed."

He looks disgusted with himself. "I _know_ that. I know you don't stay because of the _bed._ I never said it was _rational._ " 

A wave of pity washes over her. "No, I know it isn't rational. Look at you, you're exhausted." She takes him by the elbow and leads him to the stairs. "Try to sleep again, yes? I promise I'll still be here in the morning."

He glowers. "I do not need to be humored."

"Of course you don't." Her smile clearly says that she is humoring him. "You just need to sleep."

Joan spends the next few hours quietly running errands in and out of the upper story rooms, hoping he'll sleep better if he can hear confirmation that she is still in the house. On one of her trips downstairs she straightens away his drawing and pastels; she suspects he will feel differently about Marcus's card once he has had some sleep. She checks the kitchen cabinets, too, making sure he didn't misplace something perishable.

Just before she settles in on the couch for the night, she thinks to look up Box Bee and the hive bees. _Euglossa watsonia,_ it turns out, is as ridiculous as Marcus's lemurs. It is a shame, she thinks: Marcus would have enjoyed the lemurs.

***

She wakes the next morning to find that Sherlock tucked a second blanket over her during the night. He is rummaging in the kitchen again, and while he obviously hasn't slept enough, he at least appears to have slept some. He does little more than grunt at her, so she wishes him a good morning and leaves for her run.

She is tempted, but she doesn't tell Marcus about the lemurs.

That afternoon, a blender arrives for her from Amazon. Sherlock waggles his fingers at her, refusing to look up from what he is doing. "So you can invite Detective Bell in for a smoothie after your runs. That's what your kind do, isn't it? I'll even make myself absent; I wouldn't want to interrupt budding young health-nut love."

She rolls her eyes at him and refuses to engage. "It'll go nicely with my spatula, Sherlock, thank you."

When she returns from the kitchen, she brings two steaming cups with her. She places one next to him before going to curl up with her own.

"What's this?" He inspects the cup, then gives her an aggrieved look. "Why do you get proper tea?"

"Catnip, chamomile, and valerian," she tells him. "And _I_ got enough sleep last night."

"I _slept_ ," he huffs.

She rolls her eyes. "Just drink it."

A few hours later, she looks up from her book to realize she hasn't heard Sherlock in a while. She goes to check up on him; the trail ends at the closed door of her room. 

She smiles, then returns to the library to take an afternoon nap, simply for the sheer, indolent pleasure of it.

***

Sherlock emerges briefly the next afternoon. He bleats her name from the kitchen, too bleary to realize she is only in the courtyard. "Where is your sling?" she asks as she comes in. He looks at her, confused, cradling his injured arm against his body. "Sit," she tells him, and he shuffles to a chair. She starts the kettle and reaches for painkillers. "No, not that way, the other way around. I need to check your dressing while you're up." He turns the chair around, perfectly compliant.

By the time she smooths the tape of his dressing back in place, his skin has gone chill under her fingers. He is nearly asleep again, draped across the back of the chair. His tea is untouched, the catnip and valerian unnecessary. 

She pats his good shoulder firmly, as if he is a horse. "Up you go," she encourages him, "and back to bed with you." When he hesitates, she gives him a firm nudge toward the stairs. "I'll be here when you wake up."

***

She is having a lie-in the next morning with a cup of coffee and the last slice of pie when Marcus calls. After she hangs up, she eyes the ceiling: Sherlock had been shuffling around a few hours earlier, but from the sound of it went straight back to bed again. She contemplates her options, and grins.

A few minutes later, she places a mug of tea on his bedside table. "Rise and shine, Sherlock! Up and at 'em! We have a case! Get a move on!"

He looks at her blearily. "Watson?"

She claps her hands at him. "Up, up, up, up, up!" 

He pushes himself upright against the headboard, squints at her, and then at his mug of tea. "We have a case?"

"No, I have a case. But if you're quick, I'll let you tag along." Her ponytail swings as she turns to leave. "Three minutes, Sherlock." She pulls the door shut on his shocked expression.

"Watson!" he shouts through the door.

"Clock's ticking!" she shouts back, already descending the stairs. For a moment, there is silence, and then the beautiful, unmistakeable crash of clumsy haste from behind the door.

Joan laughs and continues down to the foyer, plucking her own mug of tea off the sideboard. By her reckoning, she has a leisurely two-and-a-half minutes of peace in which to drink it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to liviapenn for their [analysis of Irene's paintings](http://liviapenn.dreamwidth.org/530623.html), and to amindamazed/hophophop for her terribly helpful [notes on the brownstone floorplan](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/45498415430).
> 
> The title is a bastardization of Wordsworth's sonnet, "To Sleep."


End file.
